In a dimly lit room
I sit and listen
As his fingers
Pour out his heart on the bleached ivory
Like spilled ink
On a black piece of paper.
He writes his novel
As he plays the notes of his past life
Pausing ever so slightly
To catch the last drop of the ink
He starts back again
And plays each note carefully
Making sure he doesn't keep his pen
On the paper too long to leave
An imprint of a permanent stain
He keeps writing his song as though no one is watching,
But as he starts to touch the black keys,
He hesitates and looks up for strength.
He stops, the ink can't be erased,
But the music still plays for me-
His only audience.
Originally written 1/6/2004